I
Puffing on another of his cigars, the Dutchman waddled into Magellan's Rec Room, a compboard under one arm, a bottle of some possibly nontoxic Chianti under another. He was clean, for once—directly out of the shower, wrapped in four of the seemingly endless supply of huge, fluffy Navy-issue towels that came with Magellan's Rec level.
"How they hangin', Emmy?" he said, as he seated himself across from me at the table and popped the cork. He took a quick swig and smacked his lips, then flicked cigar ash on the floor and stuck the moist end back in his mouth.
I was tempted to ask if he'd ever made a mistake and stuck the lit end between his lips, but he might have figured that for a wish—which it was—and gigged me for insubordination.
"I'm fine, sir," I said. I shut down my compboard and rubbed at my tired eyes. I had been busy working on a Qualification Course—Logistics; if there's anything duller, I don't want to have to study it—and any excuse to take a break was welcome.
Well, almost welcome; the Dutchman was barely an exception.
"Entirely a matter of opinion." He puffed another cloud of foul smoke in my direction. "That all depends on this—I've been working on your Quarterly, and amusing myself with your Pers file."
That last is nonreg: accessing a Personnel file without proper need is, technically, a court-martial offense. On the other hand, a commanding officer presumably has the need to know anything and everything on record about his subordinates. On another hand, the purpose is supposed to be to help him do his job better; strolling through Personnel records isn't supposed to be a hobby.
I've run out of hands, but I wasn't about to try and do anything about it: tattling on senior officers about trivial offenses isn't known to do a lot of good for junior officers' careers.
Besides, everybody I know in the Service seems to spend inordinate amounts of time cracking, or trying to crack, computer security systems. I'm not sure where it comes from, but it is traditional.
He furrowed his brow for a moment. "Trouble is, I can't seem to find any paper on you before you showed up at Alton—either the data ain't onboard or I can't access it. You were a transfer from New Haven?"
"That's right." In a manner of speaking. . . .
"Asshole." Norfeldt smiled. "I thought you were a dumbass kraut, but now I know it."
"Sir, I am not German. My family has been Austrian for more than two hundred years, sir."
"And the transfer? To the CS? If that doesn't make you a dumb shit, what does?"
I snorted. "I had a hell of a choice, Major. Either transfer or sit down at a Naval court-martial. I didn't think I'd like ten years at hard labor on Thellonee . . . so I picked the CS transfer."
One moment of letting my anger loose . . .
"Oh? Tell me about it."
"I'd rather not."
The Dutchman raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, Emmy. I guess I must be hearing things—you disobeying a direct order, shithead?" He jerked his head at my coffee cup. "Take a swig and start spewing it out. From the beginning, Mister."
An order is an order.
Of course, there are usually more ways than one to obey an order, unless the giver is very careful. "Yes, sir. To begin: my Grosspapa was born in Vienna—"
"Shut up, Mister. A touch of white mutiny, eh?" He downed some more Chianti. "I wouldn't, Emmy, I really wouldn't. Start again, and take it from where you arrived at the Naval Academy."
I thought it over for a moment. I could go into such detail that I'd never get past the first day, or . . .
Oh, to hell with it. Why not? "Sure, Major. I arrived by copter . . ."